This seemed to concern Lilly, and she began to get up, but appeared to feel dizzy and plopped back down. “C, would you give ’em water?” she asked. “Not tap water!—water from that plastic bottle in the kitchen. I collect rain water for them.”
While C was watering the plants, I scoped out Lilly’s apartment. A small wooden dining table was covered in a pretty print cloth and it was set for four, with brightly colored plates, cups, and saucers, and silverware placed appropriately on cloth napkins. Two small windows were covered in handmade beaded curtains of silver and turquoise. The sofa Lilly was lying on was covered with a beautiful red-white-and-blue Native American blanket. The wall behind the sofa contained framed family photos. There was a picture of a man in a brown army uniform and cap. He was an older man. I got up and went closer. There was a photo of a younger man, also in an army uniform. Next to that picture was a black-and-white photo of a Native American man with a long feathered headdress.
The song had ended on the radio, and another commercial came on. “This Memorial Day is the perfect time to buy your loved one a place in the heavens with National Star Registry,” the announcer proclaimed. “For only $19.99, you can have a star named after your wife or husband, and we will send you a certificate of authenticity.” It seemed bizarre that there were now stars in the sky named Becky, Barbie, and Randy. “We’re back,” the deejay’s perky voice resumed. “Here’s Etta James and ‘Standing on Shaky Ground.’”
Lilly had roused and was on the move. She stumbled toward C and nearly fell to the floor. C reached out and caught her. Lilly then nuzzled up against C, wrapped her arm around his neck, and pulled his head down so she could whisper in his ear. It seemed Lilly was offering C a little feminine touch for a pinch of his bud.
C smiled as he gently pulled away from Lilly. “Oh, madam, I would be one lucky man to taste the nectar of your kiss and to know your charms, but I am not worthy of even a small embrace from a lady of your stature. Alas, my lass, I also have noticed the fragrance of vomit on your breath.” Lilly abruptly pulled away from C, in a huff. “But I do have with me the elixir to cure what ails thee,” C added, as Lilly reached the wooden chair in the dining room and threw herself down in disgust. She took the back of her hand and rubbed it roughly across her mouth.
C dove into his sea bag and pulled out a plastic Fanta bottle filled with a caramel-colored substance. “It’s called Adam’s Tree Bark Tea,” C exclaimed, as he held up the bottle. “It cures everything! Drives out evil spirits, grows hair on bald spots. wipes out fungus, improves concentration, and relieves constipation!
“My gran’father used to make that back in South Dakota,” Lilly said. “Tree bark tea. I haven’t had it in forty years. Where’d you get it?”
“Oh, I can’t reveal that,” C said. “A secret location. We have passwords and everything just to get in.”
“You’re full of shit, C,” Lilly retorted. “I’m gonna take a shower. I need it bad.” She stood up slowly and used a hand to brace herself.
“That’s an understatement,” C noted wryly.
“There’s a pot in the kitchen, so make us some tea,” Lilly said as she headed to the bathroom, finally resigned to the fact that C was not going to provide the stimulants she longed for.
C took his bottle to the kitchen, and I heard him rattling through pots and pans, looking for an appropriate one in which to heat the tree bark tea. Lilly had closed the door to her tiny bathroom, but even with the door closed and the strains of “My Girl” coming from the radio, it was easy to hear her throwing up.
“Lilly is worshipping the porcelain god,” C said, laughing. “Hey, Richard. Come look at this.”
I went into the kitchen. C was running some hot water into the sink and pouring detergent onto a pile of dishes. He stopped, put down the soap container, and quickly dried his hands on a small towel on the counter. “Would you take these out to the recycling bin?” he asked, pointing to three empty Smirnoff bottles. “It’s right out front.”
“Okay,” I said, as he handed me the empties. I headed for the door.
“Wait. Let’s get rid of this one, too.” He opened the refrigerator and removed another bottle. “There’s one last swig in it,” he said, twisting off the cap and downing the contents. “Looks like she’s been drinking for quite a few days.”
C handed me the bottle, and I headed for the door again. Outside, the parking lot was now full of people sitting on their ice chests and looking relaxed in their lawn chairs. I received a few smiles as I headed for the bin, loaded down with empty vodka bottles. I dropped them in the bin and quickly headed back.
I could hear the shower running through the thin walls. “So, you know Lilly?” I asked C as he was washing the dishes.
“Oh, not very well,” C replied. “I have bumped into her around town. She thinks I sell weed, which I don’t,” he continued. “I only use it for my bad back, which hurts a lot from all the crosses I bear in life. It’s purely medicinal,” and he laughed.
“I’ve seen her intoxicated a lot, usually alone, walking the streets,” he continued. “And I’ve run into her at Sally’s and a few other places when she’s been charming, polite, and quite the conversationalist.”
I walked back into the living room to check on Willow. She had curled up for a nap, with one eye open to survey the human activities.
But Willow’s nap was short-lived. “Aaaaaaaiiieeeeiiiii.” The sound of a fire-truck siren filled the room. Then “Rrrrrmmmm, rrrrrmmmmm.” Motorcycles revved their engines and a band played Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever”—first the piccolos, then the trombones, the drums, and finally the full band.
The parade had begun. I pulled back one of Lilly’s delicate curtains to view the tuba players puffing on their instruments and strutting by. The band was followed by a red Mustang convertible with a Marine sitting atop the back seat, wearing his dress uniform—white pants, blue coat with brass buttons, and dress cap. He was waving at the crowd. Next, a white convertible came into view, a new Cadillac with a sign on the side: congressman norm DICKS supports our troops. The congressman, dressed in a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie was smiling and waving at the crowd as well.
Then, like a small earthquake, the walls began to shake and a roar from above filled the room. The crowd outside cheered and looked to the sky as a jet plane came in low and fast over the city. Two of Lilly’s pictures fell off the wall, and Willow got spooked and ran to sit at my feet. “Flying low, wasn’t he?!” C yelled from the kitchen.
“Wow!” I said. “It’s okay, girl,” I assured Willow, who hopped back onto the sofa.
Lilly opened the bathroom door, a large towel wrapped around her small body and another around her head. “That feels a lot better,” she said, as she walked barefoot to her bedroom and shut the door.
Drums could be heard again outside. I peeked out to see six drummers pounding in unison. A drum major in his navy whites blew his whistle sharply three times and then spun around to face the rest of the band. Lifting his shiny baton high, he blew his whistle again and turned smartly forward as the band began to play. C broke into song in the kitchen in his off-key, crackly voice, “Anchors aweigh, my boys, anchors aweigh!” He came singing and prancing into the living room with a long toilet brush he must have found under the sink.
I couldn’t resist joining in his parade around the living room, holding my hands to my mouth and making a squeaky sound like I was playing a flute. C lifted his brush high, then low, stopped for a second, and then paraded again.
“Hey!” Lilly called out, and we froze in our tracks, not only at her voice, but also at her appearance. She had put on a beautiful white dress trimmed with multicolored beads and a pair of white moccasins. Her jetblack hair was still wet. She held a brush in her hand and brought it to her hair. She looked beautiful.
“That’s my toilet brush, C—in the living room!” Lilly sounded quite indignant. The sound of the band began to fade away, but the radio was still blaring. Buffal
o Springfield was singing “There’s something happening here ...”
“I can’t stand all this noise!” Lilly said, turning off the radio.
“The tea is ready,” C said, heading for the kitchen.
Lilly noticed the two pictures that had fallen off the wall and went over to them. “Good. The glass didn’t break,” she said, picking them up off the floor and carrying them to the table. She sat down, gracefully.
I joined her at the table, and C came in carrying two cups of steaming tree bark tea. He gave one to Lilly and one to me and returned to get a cup for himself. “You look nice in that dress,” he said as he returned.
“Thank you, C,” Lilly responded demurely. She carefully picked up one of the pictures she had retrieved from the floor.
“Who is that, Lilly?” I asked.
“That’s my father,” she said. “Isn’t he a handsome man?”
“He is!” I replied.
“He’s Cherokee,” said Lilly. “That’s another picture of him on the wall—the old one, with the headdress. I hardly knew my dad. My mother gave me this picture before she died, four years ago. His name was Charles. They liked to call him Charlie. He died in the Korean War when I was a child.”
“And that one?” I asked, nodding at the other picture.
“My brother. Isn’t he beautiful?” she asked, turning the frame to us.
We nodded.
“He took care of me when I was little, always watching over me.” She smiled, gazing at the picture.
“Where is he now?” C asked.
“He died, too,” Lilly said. “He joined the army like my dad and was killed in Vietnam. They wanted to be warriors. David wanted to be a warrior like his dad.” She clutched the picture to her bosom. Tears began to form in her eyes. “David was killed on Memorial Day.”
The parade was still passing by outside, but it seemed quite still in the apartment.
“War has got all it’s going to get from my family,” Lilly said, reaching for her tea and taking a sip.
“So that’s why you were singing ‘David’s Song’ this morning,” C said.
“Yes. In his honor,” Lilly replied. “But I was kinda drunk.”
“Well, could you sing it now?” C asked.
“Now?” Lilly was incredulous at the suggestion.
“Why not?” C asked.
“I—I guess,” she said. She began to sing very softly:
When the Spirit of the Lord moves in my heart,
I will sing like David sang.
When the Spirit of the Lord moves in my heart,
I will sing like David sang.
She raised her voice as she continued.
I will sing, I will sing; I will sing like David sang.
I will sing, I will sing; I will sing like David sang.
Comfortable with us now, Lilly stood up, stepped back from the table, and said, “Sing with me.”
When the Spirit of the Lord moves in my heart,
I will dance like David danced.
As she sang, she began to sway from one foot to the other. We began to sing along.
When the Spirit of the Lord moves in my heart,
I will dance like David danced.
I will dance, I will; I will dance like David danced.
I will dance, I will dance; I will dance like David danced.
C and I applauded. Lilly bowed and smiled and then sat down at the table. She reached for her cup and took a drink of her tea. “You know, this is pretty good tea,” she said.
“And you’re a good dancer,” C said.
“And you’re a good singer,” I said to C.
“That’s a lie, Richard,” Lilly said, and we all laughed.
Lilly took another sip of tea and then set her cup down. “The Indian Commissioner banned dancing by Cherokees in 1883.” She was reflective for several minutes.
And so the afternoon continued. We stayed at Lilly’s the rest of the day. We all stuck our heads out the windows to watch the rest of the parade: Boy Scouts, then Cub Scouts, then Girl Scouts, the 4-H float, twenty or more glittering baton twirlers, a line of antique cars, and a troop of sultry belly dancers, followed by a half dozen silver-saddled palomino horses.
Later, C found enough money in the bottom of his sea bag to send me to the store for the makings of chicken and dumplings, which he prepared. After dinner, Lilly told us all she knew about her family as we played a few hands of her favorite game, Rummy 500.
Lilly said we could sleep over if we wished, but we would have to be quiet; no parades and stuff. I curled up on the sofa with Willow and closed my eyes. C was chuckling from the easy chair as he watched The Simpsons.
As I readied myself for sleep, and what I hoped would be good dreams, I replayed my mental tape of the day. My friend C had shown me a new window to look through, pushed me through a door I would have never entered, and sang with me a song I would never have sung. “David’s Song” would have been just another set of lyrics to me.
But when C bent down to help Lilly get off the ground in front of Sally’s, I had to bend down with him. If I had been by myself, I would most likely have just stepped over her. And I would have been the loser.
Chapter 16
VINNY
C always seemed to show up when I needed him most.
It was Tuesday and it was raining. It had poured most of the weekend and on into the week. A clear sky and my sense of hope were on a par—there was none of either in sight. When I still had a home, rainy days like this would find me watching a video, having dinner, maybe playing cards with Sandra. Then we would light some candles, burn incense, and make love.
I had been depressed most of the weekend, losing the struggle to bury those memories of the past. It surprised me how inventive my mind could be in finding ways to protect itself when I was feeling particularly challenged by homelessness. I felt like an “urban cowboy” in some ways, totally out of my element, yet knowing I must adapt. I couldn’t just stand there in one spot waiting for Mr. Sulu to beam me back to the bridge of the Enterprise, where the old crew would hug me and welcome me home.
With no home and no money, I had found occasional cheap entertainment for Willow and me at PetSmart, and we headed there again today. We would look at the hamsters, and Willow would scratch on the glass cages. (It occurred to me that the hamsters were more valuable than I was. They were housed, they were fed and watered regularly, and they were worth $19.99 apiece; someone would buy one, take it home, name it, and even buy it some toys.) We would also check out the birds and the fish. Other dogs would come in and check each other out as well, and we were always given a free dog biscuit for the road. It was warm and dry, and it took my mind off my troubles. It was a brief diversion—a short-term shelter for Willow and me. We could easily kill an hour at PetSmart.
Today I thought about C as we toured this animal warehouse, and I wondered what he might say. A young child was crying by the fish tanks. “I want a new fish,” the girl pleaded with her resolute mother. “I want it! I want it!”
“You flushed the last three down the toilet,” the mother responded. “I am not wasting any more money on those little fish!”
“How would you like to be flushed down the toilet, ma’am?” That’s what C would have said.
I wondered how many millions of goldfish in New York City alone had been flushed down toilets by little girls and boys and if any of them survived and flourished, gorging on the sludge under the Big Apple until they reached monstrous proportions. Could goldfish two hundred feet long be swimming deep in the harbor and someday (in Stephen King fashion) attack cruise ships and ferry boats?
We continued sauntering down the aisles. There were turtles from Africa, snakes from the Amazon, birds from Guatemala, fish from Costa Rica—all snatched from the rocks, deserts, rivers, and jungles of the world, put in cages and transported to other cages here, to be sold and displayed in still other cages in living rooms and dens and dentists’ offices. All for profit.
On that wonderful note, we prepared to leave PetSmart and go back out into the rainy day. To my surprise, C was standing just outside the door. “Hey there,” he said. “I’ve been next door at the thrift shop.” He lifted two plastic bags in the air. “Got some towels, dishcloths, and a few other things for the Armadillo.”
“I just took Willow to the zoo,” I said.
“Would you mind giving me a lift?” C asked.
We dashed through the heavy rain to the van and jumped in.
“You interested in watching some TV?” C asked as we started rolling.
“Sure.”
“Let’s go over to my friend Vinny’s.” C nodded his head to indicate the appropriate direction, and off we went.
When we arrived and knocked on the door, a disembodied voice yelled, “Come in.” It was Jake from Sally’s, spread out on the sofa in his boxers, drinking a beer and watching TV. “Hey—C and Richard! Good to see ya. Grab a seat and make yourselves at home.” Jake dragged himself off the couch and reached for a pair of pants. “If I’ve got guests, I guess I’d better get some clothes on.”
C and I planted ourselves in a couple of recliners. “What are you watching?” C asked Jake.
“Oh, nothing really. I’ve been flipping around—six hundred channels, and nothing good to watch.”
“Can I try?” C asked. Jake tossed him the remote. “I’ll find something to watch. There’s got to be a war on somewhere. Let’s try CNN. What’s the channel?”
“Who knows?” mumbled Jake. “You’ve got the remote.”
C continued to flip through the channels until he found CNN. One of the embedded reporters was standing in front of a U.S. Army tank on the road to Baghdad. “These tanks are really troop carriers with as many as six soldiers squeezed into tight quarters in the back of the vehicle,” the reporter said. “It is very hot, especially in these desert conditions and with the troops wearing chemical warfare-protective clothing.”
C punched buttons again and found the Iron Chef sushi program. A chef was slicing and dicing broccoli at amazing speed and preparing an award-winning Asian dish. The chef bowed at the waist as he received accolades from the show host.
Breakfast at Sally's Page 18
